Maboroshi
by The Smashlee
Summary: Even with me beside him Jamie is still keenly searching. He is always looking for Jack Frost. His brown-eyed stare is still fixed on the outside world, hoping for a hint of snow, inspecting the world for his 'friend'. As if another hallucination would validate the delusion. Mental Illness. Young adult Jamie.


He's sitting by the window again.

His chair is like the ones used in luxury home dining, high-backed and wide. It's decidedly old, its weariness showing through fraying brown leather and scuffled wooden legs. The aged seat is large enough to support Jamies entire lanky and skinny figure. He's hunched forward with one leg drawn up to his chest, the other dangling by the ground, swinging back, forth, back, forth. As a twenty-two year old young man he is still as handsome as ever.

He hasn't noticed me come in yet. Underneath light brown bangs he's surveying the generous hospital gardens outside and observing the skies.

Faint sun rays peek through overhead grey clouds and travels through the windowpane, resting on Jamie. He yawns loudly and I'm assuming he has just woken even if it is mid-morning. I close the door behind me with a soft click and hearing it he looks up. We meet each other with matching grins. Setting my handbag at the door I extend my arms out, walk behind him and give him a moment to finish rubbing the sand from his eyes. I lean down and wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face in the junction of his neck and shoulder. He's warm. I haven't visited him in a week but it feels like a year and in this embrace I can draw a childhood comfort from my older brother. We take a moment to savour in the familiarity and we giggle at our silly sentimentality.

"Jaaaamie!" I greet, extending the vowels of his name.

"How are you?" I wonder and untangle myself from him. I drag over the visitors chair from the far corner and position it with my back to the windowsill so I am facing Jamie.

He embodies nonchalance, shrugging half-heartedly and running a hand through his brown hair. If I didn't know any better I'd say he couldn't be assed with a visitor. But he lets loose a smile and light catches the slivers in his eyes that glisten - he's happy to see me.

"Meh, 'M not too shabby. How are _you_, Soph?" he gestures towards my head, "Your hair looks cool today."

Half-amused I run a hand through my own hair and inspect the styled blonde curls, frowning at the split-ends. _Time for a haircut again, really?_ Raising an eyebrow I scoff loudly. "Pfft, thanks Jay. -if you're into bird nests."

He laughs and rolls his eyes.

"No, I'm good!" I continue, rolling my shoulders back. "I mean, it's Friday afternoon right - can't complain."

In here particular weekdays bear no overall significance to the daily grind but he hums in agreement anyway. As he quiets he's looking out the window again. Already.

If you didn't know him you'd think he's arguably bored. Bored of me, bored of these four walls he's habituated to and you'd think perhaps that he's looking outside for a distraction. He's not. His eyes are ever-so subtly scanning the external environment. He's looking for something. He's always looking for something,

He links his fingers together and rests them above the ankle of his raised leg. There are holes and tears holes in the base of his pyjamas and make a mental note to pick up some new ones for him. It's his birthday soon.

"Rough week at school, Soph?"

The nature of his illness means his attention is always scattered and divided so I don't make much of it. So even if he can't keep his focus off the window long enough to have a proper conversation I try to not take it personally. My gut feels the sizzling heat of irritation, however, at the mention of the proverbial torture-chamber that is Burgess High. This is my final year, my final semester and the sheer anxiety and pressure of expectation is becoming overwhelming.

Way too much stress. I'm only 18, way _way_ too young for this frown-line, grey hair inducing stress.

I groan loudly and try to convey how much of an understatement '_rough'_ was. Rough? Sandpaper is rough; school is swimming in hot coals.

"Understatement of the century," I whine. Sufficiently warm I remove the heavy jacket off my shoulders and toss it on the nearby bed. "I'll never know what makes the teachers think it's okay to have five assignments due in the one week. Like _'Hey, three tests and an oral presentation isn't enough, have an essay!'_". I blow a raspberry.

Schoolwork. Ugh.

Jamie laughs hoarsely and inclining his head back looks at me long enough that I see mirth highlight eyes before he reverts his attention back outside. He's silent for a moment, clearly reflecting on his own memories of his final year and then joins me in making an exaggerated expression of revulsion. He pretends for a moment that he's going to be physically sick.

"_Ass_-ignments , Soph," he quips, "They're trying to break your spirit."

"Break my brain you mean!"

I shuffle my suede boots off and kick them under the bed. As I do so Jamie takes the opportunity to duck his head and briefly search underneath. I don't know if something is lost or if he thinks something is hiding, I don't ask.

I ignore the curiosity and flying question marks and try to keep on track. "Jokes on them," I whisper a low, self-deprecating tone, "…there isn't anything up there to break anyway!"

He discernibly snorts so I know he's listening – I notice he's quick to poke fun but doesn't try to defend my intelligence, I notice. Maybe I should be offended? Whatever, I'm blonde; I can get away with the humour.

Contemplative silence reigns for a second before we trade looks and shared another playful giggle.

I sigh loudly and relish in the warm contentment oozing down to my fingertips. He's looking out the window again, I don't mind though, talking with him like this is nice.

"Enough about me - what's news on your end?"

He doesn't answer straight away. The older Bennett stretches him arms up high, the sleeves of his pyjamas falling to his elbows revealing too pale alabaster skin. He audibly cracks the joints in his back and catlike, he yawns before answering. "Oh… y'know - just the usual. Racing cars… picking up the ladies... Drugs, sex, alcohol."

I shoot him an unimpressed look that I _know_ he can see from the corner of his eyes. Remaining seated I swivel the chair to face him better, resting my feet up on the bed behind him. I didn't feel bothered enough to kick my damp socks off along with my shoes. Jamies' mouth is faintly lined with traces of amusement. It doesn't quite reach his shifting coffee-coloured eyes.

"C'mon, It's not _that_ far from the truth," he tries to convince me.

I'll bite, though I'm sure he'll explain without prompt anyway. A wayward eyebrow rises in curiosity.

"Well…" he starts croakily, "…yesterday I _was _drag racing the ward wheelchairs with the patient next door,"

I roll my eyes at this, trying to convey some sense of sisterly disapproval (which went completely unnoticed). It was a source of universal mystery for my gender – males and their mischief! He's unfazed by my opinion and continues anyway, unapologetic.

"…and on Wednesday a new nurse started on the ward… but she's like, forty, though and uh…not really a lady...and…um, yeah…"

He trails off awkwardly before clearing his throat,"aaaand….they….uhhm… started me on the new meds."

Jamie runs an anxious hand over his neck and draws both legs up to his chest. He fidgets like a child that knows they are soon to be scolded.

It doesn't take a genius to see that talking about this embarrasses him. After 8 months in an inpatient psychiatric facility his life is entirely limited to the walls of the ward. Every now and then he will receive news from family and his dwindling group of friends but 'news' never really happens for him inside here. He's says that his life in comparison to mine is too dull, too trivial to "bore" me with.

"_My life is about as interesting as a wet rag, Soph – tell me about that new movie you saw…"_

I wish he would open up to me.

I nudge his shoulder with a damp foot, probing for more.

"It's too early to tell," he says quickly, swatting away my foot when I bring it to his nose. "Gross, Soph." I stick my tongue out. The topic of his new medication is clearly a sore one.

Unlike most of the other patients in this facility Jamie doesn't recognise his illness or even that he is unwell at all. Those with mental health issues like depression, anxiety, eating disorders; they know they're sick, they are aware that there is fundamentally something wrong with their thinking. But that's not the case with Jamie – even after all this time, no matter how we try and prove otherwise he remains convinced that he's fine, normal, and healthy.

"_It's not me that's sick, Sophie – the world is."_

Just recently his treatment team - his doctor, psychiatrists, nursing staff – they decided that the hallucinations were not subsiding and were in-fact as prevalent as ever. This was all blindingly brought to attention when he momentarily escaped the ward last weekend. I've never seen my mother look as sick as she did when she got the call. All of Jamies' friends, our family –Moms' boyfriend included – we all went on the search trying to canvas the area. I don't think I've ever been so terrified.

"_He's just up and gone! Where the hell were the staff!?" _

Although this psychiatric unit is two towns over Jamie was eventually found halfway to Burgess Lake, barefoot and hypothermic. They doubled his security after that.

It all happened because _winter was late_. In our snowy province the delay of first snow was certainly an anomaly in its own right - but Jamie became convinced that it was because _Jack Frost_ was in danger and needed rescuing.

Thinking of Jack Frost, the delusion that started it all, made me seethe, a nauseating combination of resent and regret mixing in my stomach.

When I was younger I used to love listening to the stories Jamie would tell about the adventures of Jack Frost and the Guardians. The tales he spun were so vivid, so exciting, I couldn't help but be enchanted by the ever-unfurling imagination that my older brother had. When I was sure our mother had fallen asleep I would crawl into his room at night and under the illumination of his flashlight he would speak volumes of a young man with white hair and blue eyes.

Jack Frost, he would say, his immortal friend who wielded power over the winter weather. Jamie would speak for hours about the snow fights they would have together and would gleefully pass on the tales.

He would narrate to me the story of when the Guardians fought and defeated Pitch Black – the _boogeyman_. These had been my favourite stories. In stunning detail Jamie would recount the battles of the Guardians, re-enacting the scenes across his bedroom and putting on funny voices. Each time I would be woven into the story and he would tell me how I was a part of it all too - even if I was '_too young to remember.' _

He still tries to convince me that these events are more fact than fable. Even now the older Bennett will adopt a satisfied air and remind me to thank his friend for the snow days.

"_Whoa…Jack sure delivered this time!" _

I can't help but be a little sad. It used to be charming to have an older brother who would take as much glee in Christmas, Easter and lost teeth as I did. We were inseparable in those days. As I grew older I was on the cusp of puberty - and as enchanting as they were, I stopped believing in the legends of my childhood.

Jamie didn't.

We thought it was just delayed maturity. _A boy with an absent father, gripping tightly to the last vestiges of his childhood_ was how the school counsellor phrased it at the time. _Give it time; he'll grow out of it_. It was peculiar at thirteen but then he was fourteen, then fifteen, and then sixteen. Even as he outwardly grew and excelled academically Jamie remained adamant that the Guardians still existed and indeed visited him.

"_Oh Soph, check out the blizzard! Geez. Jack said he had a lot of pent up anger – he wasn't kidding…."_

Quirky, yes. Strange, sure. Definitely abnormal. But Mom and I, we loved him and even if we couldn't convince him that these people weren't real we'd hoped that his imagination would run its course. It was relatively innocent and didn't detract from his school or personal life.

It stopped being harmless one day when Jamie came home with a split lip, a black eye and horribly bruised ribs.

A landscaper had found him in the forest by himself – climbing and leaping off trees and repeatedly beating himself on hard snow and ice beds. When he'd gotten home Jamie insisted that he and _Jack_ were just having a snow fight that had gotten out of hand – that it was all a bit of fun between friends.

"_Don't cry, Mom. I'm okay, see? I'll be more careful next time, promise."_

Back in the present I sneak another glance at my older brother – but, as usual, he doesn't look back. Even with me beside him Jamie is still keenly searching. He is always looking for Jack Frost. His brown-eyed stare is still fixed on the outside world, hoping for a hint of snow, inspecting the world for his 'friend'. As if another hallucination would validate the delusion.

Jamie says the appearances of the Guardians are infrequent and sporadic. Ripples of ache tide in knowing that even his own ghosts perpetuate his loneliness. It's another reminder of of how lonely this has made me too.

"How's Mom?" He queries, sounding only vaguely interested. She doesn't come around often anymore.

I shrug and pin my hair behind my ears with clips from my pocket. "Good. She's keeping busy – wedding plans and all that." Clearly disinterested in marital matters he crosses his arms over his chest and scowls. Like with his treatment, the subject of our Mom's boyfriend should be approached with caution.

Ha, please. As if I'm going to let him get away with that.

I fling a spare hair clip at his chest and chide him gently. "Don't be like that, Jay."

"What? He's a _dick_."

"You smashed his windscreen!" I laughed, hopping into the memory and remembering how mortified our mother had been. She'd been overly nervous to be introducing her new partner to her family to begin with - and then within the first minute of arriving at our house the windscreen of his luxury car gets shattered to smithereens. Ahhh… soft, velvety nostalgia.

I stop enjoying the memory remembering how later that night I had walked past Jamies' room in I heard him talking to someone. Peering through the doorway Jamie was talking animatedly – with someone only he could see.

"_Gee, Jack – for someone who's been having snow fights for 300 years your aim totally sucks! Dude, you're lucky he has insurance…" _

Retaliating for the thrown hair accessories he picks them up from where they lay on the floor and lobs them back at my head. I have always been embarrassingly uncoordinated and so I can only wince as I am pelted with bullet-like clips and elastics, thrown one at a time.

"Stop!" I laugh, trying to shield my face with outstretched hands. "It's hard enough to keep track of hair ties already!"

Our chuckles subside and Jamie looks over at me fondly. He gives me his full attention when he tuts like our school principal and purses his lips. "You struck first, Miss Bennett. For thatI'm going to have to deduct 14.75 house points."

I roll my eyes and mock-salute him. "Sir, yes sir!"

(I miss this).

A cough escapes my throat, clearing the remnant bubbles of glee. "Seriously though… overpriced cars and scary sweater-vests aside he's not that bad. You just gotta get to know him a bit."

I instantly wish I hadn't of said that.

As quickly as they came all hints of delight dissipated from Jamie's young face and he was staring out the window again. Regret quickly trickles down and pools in my chest. I bite my bottom lip. He clears his throat.

"Yeah… well, I don't really have much choice in the matter, do I?"

The rhetorical query is heavily laced in bitterness and I don't quite know how to respond. Or even if I should respond. At the end of all potential dialogues there is only one thing I can say – _well,_ _you know exactly what you need to do to fix that._

I keep my mouth shut, not trusting myself to say the right thing. Regardless of how much I'd like to remedy his loneliness and repair our disconnected family my primary, overwhelming feeling is… frustration. For me it's an old feeling that never quite lifted its residue over the years, kept alive by this situation that remains unchanged. I resent my mother for abandoning my sick brother. I deplore the useless mental health care system that has done nothing to help him. I taste my own acrid guilt when I believe I helped perpetuate Jamies' bizarre fantasies.

But most of all I am bothered by Jamie himself. I am rational. I am clear-headed (most of the time) - my linear melody of logic acknowledges that this _totally_ isn't his fault, that he isn't actually _choosing_ schizophrenia (who would?). Emotions, however, aren't reasonable and like bees and hummingbirds they buzz, zip and zoom, near impossible for clumsy humans to catch.

In my heart I am angry that he hasn't changed to save himself. I am beyond irate by the idea that he would rather chase fairy-tales than to function like the 22 year old he is. I am torn apart by the fact that we can be like brother and sister one minute and the next he's gone away. I am hurt that his conviction in _Jack Frost_ and _Santa Clause_ is stronger than his will to be with his family – _I just want my big brother back_.

"_I can't believe you are sending me away– there is nothing wrong with me!"  
_  
Jamie doesn't look back. I've lost him.

I try – and fail- to not take his retreat personally. Instead I try and take inventory of the room starting with taking note of the time blinking on his alarm clock. Visiting hours are nearly over. I scan the walls, still adorned with pieces he's created in art therapy and of photos of friends and family. Half of his wardrobe is stashed haphazardly into a cupboard and the other half is scattered over the floor. His single bed hasn't been made and all the sheets are askew. Underneath his pillow is a familiar pink bunny with one eye replaced with a blue button. It is time-worn, well-loved and in desperate need of a wash. I hate it and glare at the proverbial security blanket.

"Are you ever gonna get rid of that thing?"

My brother breaks his gaze away from the window again to snort and raise an eyebrow as if I was the one who was crazy.

"What for?"

I shrug and shake my head not willing to elaborate. After trying to reason with Jamie for months, years I've come to learn that this is hardly the time and place to debate - I know better than that. Again I metaphorically zip my lips closed because I want to allow him some respite, just this one comfort. I don't like being mad at him. Time to change the focus, me thinks. I lean back on my chair and sigh loud and long.

"So…"

I plaster a cheeky expression over my face and Jamie observes in hesitant curiosity.

"….so….?"

I clasp my hands at the back of my head and nudge his ribs with my wayward feet again. "Jamie, Jamie, Jamie. Are you gonna introduce me to the hot doctor I passed coming in or not?"

Jamie groans.

* * *

Sophie stays forty-five minutes past visiting hours before I find it too hard to keep focus on her. We played cards and talked about her plans of going to university in Australia before the winds outside started to whistle and the clouds darkened.

That was all I needed to drown.

I know better than anyone, dead or alive, the pre-cursors to snow fall. Sophie is smart; she must have sensed the importance in the change in weather because when she heard it she became very quiet. It was soon after that she gave me another hug and a kiss on the cheek before promising over and over to return.

I love my sister. I'm so proud of her.

My medication makes it very difficult to concentrate on more than one thing at a time. It's to help stop the obsessive thoughts they say. More like tranquilize the soul out of me, but whatever - what my opinion is on the matter is apparently completely irrelevant so when another hour passes with me not moving an inch from my seat I barely notice. In fact, I barely remember how it feels to not be sedated and slow and sluggish.

I don't understand why I'm here and why they won't let me leave. I don't know why they won't believe me.

I'm not crazy.

Another hour passes.

Slowly the prelude ends and feather-light snowflakes leave their home in the sky and float down. Each particle is easily swayed like confetti and they meet the ground soundlessly. They greet the window sill and as each snowflake melts on contact another replaces it, building up and up and up until it accumulates.

Minutes pass and I can't keep the smile off my face. I drag my chair as close to the window as possible and hold my breath. The heavier the snowfall becomes the faster my heart beats .The lush grass so green before is now sprinkled cold white like icing sugar on cake.

Seven more minutes pass. Then without warning a wild flurry appears before my window, coating it in frost and ice and completely obscuring my view of the outside world.

_Yes. _Finally I extend my legs and stand with an animated vigour that medication made me forget I had. I begin to inch my face closer to the glass and then…from the other side the silhouette of a hand reaches up and wipes away the frost in a circular motion. _It's been too long._

Through the cleared space the smirking face of Jack Frost appears – breathlessly I half laugh, half exhale, unable to help myself.

_Aren't you a sight for sore eyes…_

Sometimes I get angry at Jack for not campaigning harder to be believed in because then other people would see him and know I'm not crazy.

But I know that's it's also not entirely true or his fault. He wants desperately to be seen and I want him to be believed in and loved by more children like the other Guardians.

But I know better than anyone how hard it is to convince people of the truth….and…

…I also kind of like our special friendship that is just us.

Taking in his appearance I have forgotten that I'm in a mental facility. Completely erased from my mind are the thoughts that I am in a mental hospital and considered a danger to myself, that my sister is going to college before me, that my mother is embarrassed to be the parent of The Other Bennett and that every time I talk about Jack Frost she starts to cry. It matters less that no one believes me.

Looking exactly like the first day I saw him Jack Frost has a twinkle in his eye that is bright with mischief. White bangs fall across his forehead as he leans lazily against his staff. He tilts his head back, signalling towards the now snow-laden garden behind him.

_Well Jamie, are you coming?_


End file.
